On the Other Side
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: "This is what you've wanted isn't it?" John says mockingly, cuttingly, fists bunched on Sherlock's collar, simultaneously holding him close and shoving him with sharp knuckles against the wall. "You should be happy now: she's gone, and I'm all yours." Post-Series 3. Spoilers for series 3.
1. The world goes on

Title: On the Other Side

Rating: Mature

Pairing: John/Sherlock

Warnings/content: angst, sexual content, mildly dubious consent (assumptions of consent), johnlock, bad!Mary

Summary:

"This is what you've wanted isn't it?" John says mockingly, cuttingly, fists bunched on Sherlock's collar, simultaneously holding him close and shoving him with sharp knuckles against the wall. "You should be happy now: she's gone, and I'm all _yours_." Post-Series 3. Spoilers for series 3.

* * *

Chapter 1: The world goes on

Sherlock follows John up the stairs to his house. He doesn't dare say a word, because John has told him, in that too-tight, deathly strained voice, "Don't you dare say a fucking word."

Sherlock does not dare.

John unlocks the door and hurls his keys onto the side table without looking to see if Sherlock follows him in. He stands braced against the back of an armchair for a moment, head bowed.

Sherlock briefly hesitates on the threshold and then unwinds his scarf, takes off his coat. John straightens and goes into the kitchen, turns on the kettle.

Sherlock stands in the living room, at a loss. He sees all the evidence of Mary oozing out of every shelf, every piece of furniture, every picture and memento. If this were his mind palace he would see this as bitter reproach.

"FUCK!"

The shout and accompanying sound of ceramic shattering against tile makes Sherlock flinch. He takes an involuntary, instinctive step back as John comes striding out of the kitchen, straight for him, incandescent with rage. His heart pounds. He expects this, accepts this: John will take out his fury and pain, and Sherlock will let him. (His fault, after all: couldn't leave the puzzle alone, couldn't lie to John just one more time).

He lets John slam him back against the wall and braces himself for the blow that will come. He can understand why John must blame him. Should have kept his mouth shut, should have let—

John crushes their mouths together, and this—John's mouth, suddenly, fiercely, viciously on his—_this_ he did not expect. He is stunned, frozen, a bolt of electricity ricocheting through him. Before he can react, John pulls back, panting.

"This is what you've wanted isn't it?" he says mockingly, cuttingly, fists bunched on Sherlock's collar, simultaneously holding him close and shoving him with sharp knuckles against the wall. "You should be happy now: she's gone, and I'm all _yours_."

Blood and adrenaline pump through Sherlock's veins. He can't find proper words, and the ones he does are surely wrong. He stares at John and then dabs his tongue to his lip where it throbs. It's swollen hot and he tastes copper.

John's gaze flickers down, catching the movement. He breathes heavily, eyes dark and _seething, _and this time Sherlock meets his mouth halfway. He cups John's head in his hands and takes his kiss, accepts his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He tastes John and he _knows_, now, exactly how it feels to have John Watson's mouth against his own.

Sherlock is humiliatingly hard and John must feel _that_, but John isn't pulling away, he's pressing in close and with a jolt of arousal Sherlock realises John's pushing his own erection against Sherlock's thigh.

John wants this, just as much as Sherlock does, _needs_ this, and Sherlock can't pretend to understand why pushing him against the wall and bruising his mouth is going to help anything at all, but it's what John wants, right now, and Sherlock will give it, willingly (and take it too, just once, now it's offered).

John grinds his hips and groans into Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock stops thinking. He breaks the kiss and spins John around, thrusts him back against the wall and sinks to his knees. John's right hand slides into his hair, gripping, as Sherlock works open his trousers. He glances up and sees John thud his head back against the plaster, eyes closed, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

This is not something Sherlock has done often, but his limited experience is for naught because this, with John, is different to anything previous, ever. He needs to know how _John_ feels on his tongue and inside his mouth. He needs to know which actions cause which responses and what those responses sound and _feel _like. He now knows the pheromonic notes of John's musk, the weight of John's testicles cupped in his hand. He knows the texture of his foreskin and the tight satin of his glans against his tongue. He now knows the tang and pH level of John's pre-ejaculate.

John groans, a sound torn from between gritted teeth. His fingers twist in Sherlock's hair and dig into his shoulder. John is not gentle and Sherlock doesn't care. He doesn't care that soon he is not so much giving as taking. He holds the base of John's cock with one hand to lessen the depth of each thrust and lets John fuck into his mouth until his lips are swollen and rubbed sore against his own teeth. He grips John's hip with another hand and shuts his eyes and pretends that John is doing this because Sherlock's deductions today, and yesterday, and the fourteen days before that, were brilliant and not heartbreaking and the end of everything.

"Fuck, fuck." With a muffled, choked noise, John thrusts once more into Sherlock's mouth and stiffens, hips stuttering as he comes. Sherlock swallows and swallows and doesn't let go until John draws back with a sharp hiss. Only then does he dare look up.

John's face is turned away and everything about it is twisted: his eyes clenched shut, his mouth a tight downturn. His body seems to curl away from Sherlock.

Sherlock sits back on his heels, stomach dropping. Mistake, he realises.

John doesn't look at him, but his shoulders shake.

"John?" he breathes.

John swallows. "Get out."

He flinches. He pushes to his feet, straightens his suit, arousal still present but rapidly flagging anyway. He doesn't look at John as he grabs his coat and scarf. Spine stiff, he presses a hand to his stomach, holding himself together as if he's suffered an unexpected abdominal incision and his internal organs are threatening to spill out. He doesn't look back as he shuts the door behind him.

* * *

John hears the door slam shut and with an awful gasp slides to the floor. He presses the heels of both hands to his eyes but he can't stop the stinging.

He gives into ugly, wracking sobs.

In the span of two weeks, the woman he loved has proven herself unlovable and unforgivable. He sees her again, standing stiffly beside the car that will take her and Lucy away. She's crying but he's too angry to hold her, too angry to do anything more than stare at her coldly. But Lucy, oh God, Lucy. He holds her to his heart and gently kisses her downy-soft head and wispy hair, touches her delicate little ears and tells her how much he loves her, will always love her. She makes a sweet little croaking sound and snuffles against his chest, and he holds her, oh he holds her, until the last possible moment.

Because as much as he hates Mary, as much as he despises her for what she was and for what he has wilfully refused to see until now, as much as he hates himself for loving her and forgiving her too many times, he cannot, cannot keep her from her baby. He cannot deny Lucy her mother.

In a few hours, Mary and Lucy Watson will no longer exist. Somewhere, somewhere else, a mother and her nine-week old baby will move into their new home, will start their new lives.

Mycroft has promised updates, yearly photographs, reports. It's not the same, will never be the same. His Lucy-bug will never know him, and he will never hold her hand as she takes her first steps, never kiss her bumps and mend her scrapes. He won't ever walk her off to sleep again. He won't ever hear her call him Dadda.

He leans his head back against the wall and exhales. He wipes at his face and the next few sobs are dry ones.

Eventually he gets to his feet, realising belatedly that his flaccid cock is still hanging out and he's just used Sherlock unforgivably, but just as unforgivably he is unable to bring himself to care.

He shoves himself back into his pants, makes some tea, and leaves it sitting on the bench as instead he goes upstairs and falls into bed, because right at this moment, being awake is something John Watson cannot bear.

tbc

* * *

Author's notes: PS I am getting so terrible with posting stuff here on ffnet, and replying and keeping track of comments (I'm so sorry), I've got a series I haven't even posted here: Scars, so if you are all inclined you can follow me on A03 (same user name). Sorry :(


	2. I'll wait for you

With enormous thanks to my patient, lovely beta Tsylvestris for support, listening to me change my mind half a dozen times and excellence in editing. Of course I fiddle right up until the last minute, so all mistakes are my own.

**Warnings for this chapter:** allusions to drug use. **Mary is not a good person in this story.** If you are a Mary fan, this probably isn't for you. If you don't like where I've gone with Mary in this story please just click away rather than taking me to task for it, trust me I've considered many angles and possibilities already and this is the path I've chosen for _this_ story

* * *

**Chapter 2: I'll wait for you**

"Come with us, John."

Mary's eyes are red and her face puffy but she's not crying anymore. Lucy is fussing in her baby seat and John can barely keep from wrenching her back out of the car. He clenches his fists at his side, takes a shuddering breath—

His alarm goes off and he wakes with the lingering combined scent of Mary, baby wash, and sour milk on his sheets. He sighs with sudden relief; for a blissful second, it was all a dream and in a minute he'll hear Mary singing to Lucy on the baby monitor. Then the chill of his new reality hits him. He throws his alarm clock against the wall and curls in on himself, back under the covers, willing himself back to sleep.

When eventually he emerges from bed, he spends the next few days emptying the house of any evidence of a wife who no longer exists.

He finds Lucy's ugly striped zebra, and it reminds him of how she'd spend ages just lying and looking at the shadows cast by the blinds. It makes him think of the one and only time Sherlock came to see her. At a day shy of six weeks, she was immediately taken with him: the contrast of his dark hair and eyebrows with his fair skin, his dark suit with his white shirt. Sherlock sat on the sofa with Lucy lying on his knees, the two of them staring at each other for a good half hour.

"She looks like Mary," Sherlock had said.

Mary had made a remark about Sherlock being a natural, about meeting someone and starting his own family. At the time John had thought it a surprisingly tactless thing for Mary to say; the vague inkling about Sherlock's feelings that had been forming ever since the wedding had grown into painful, confusing certainty in the aftermath of Christmas (and God, what was he supposed to do with that?). John, who had been standing in the doorway, unnoticed, had winced when he'd seen the sudden unguarded hurt on Sherlock's face before he'd been able to shut it down.

Sherlock had never visited again.

In hindsight, the fact that Sherlock must have organised the paternity test soon afterwards isn't a surprise.

He stuffs the zebra into the box to go to charity and seals it up. He feels as if he's being slowly compressed from the outside in. He buries his face in his arms for a bit then sucks in a breath and gets to his feet.

He plugs his phone back into the charger and thumbs through the three texts and missed calls that have come in over the last few days: work, Harry. No one else. He scrubs at his face, calls in to the clinic, pleading a personal emergency. God, he can't even remember what his cover story about Mary and Lucy was supposed to be.

He scrolls through his messages once more, guilt mingling with reproach and anger towards certain third parties. He doesn't want to think about Sherlock right now. Without Sherlock's bloody deductions, John would still be a happily married father to a newborn. Part of him wonders if Sherlock's determination to discover Mary's past was due to sheer jealousy. Sherlock certainly did a number on John's marriage: unpicked it completely and left no chance at all that John would forgive Mary this time.

John sighs. He's not being fair. Mary's past had caught up with her without any help from Sherlock Holmes. The break-in proved that.

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

Then he and Sherlock had...of all the stupid things to do. Fuck. He should have stopped it after the kiss. Shouldn't have kissed him in the first place.

He can rationalise it: over three months (no, years) of dancing around his confused feelings for Sherlock; a pathetic attempt to get even with Mary. It doesn't make it any more right.

He's not—

He can't be what Sherlock wants him to be. He can't…he's just lost his wife and child. Sherlock always asks for too much, and this is one step too far.

Sherlock doesn't get to abandon him for two fucking years, then decide he has feelings for him and just...get to have him.

He remembers Sherlock kissing him, holding his face in his hands and kissing him—hard against him—on his knees. The memory of it, the way Sherlock had—oh God, that mouth, and he just seemed to want it so much— He'd kicked Sherlock out afterwards.

He groans and scrubs at his face with both palms. God, what a mess.

* * *

Sherlock cannot be unoccupied at this moment. It is not an option. He also would prefer not to sleep, but he has, for two stretches of four hours and one for six in the past five days. He cannot bear food, either, his stomach an undisciplined set of nerves—gut bacterial changes are related to anxiety, he read in a study. He induces emesis and then spends half a day examining the bacterial composition of his own stomach lining. Then Mrs Hudson brings up a plate of fish and chips and he gnaws at the chips abstractly and asks for a probiotic.

Mrs Hudson gives him one of her herbal soothers instead and they share it at the kitchen table. Mrs Hudson giggles a bit. Sherlock finishes the chips, then snipes at Mrs Hudson until she goes away and leaves him to lie face-down on the sofa in peace.

Flashes of memory slap at him and he groans, sits up, and snatches up his laptop. He trawls through his email in desperation and plucks a case out of the slush pile of fives that he's ignored for the last month.

He's showered, dressed and is pulling on his coat when he hears the front door open downstairs and a steady, painfully familiar tread on the stairs.

John.

It was an irreversible mistake to have memorised the exact cadence and sound of John Watson climbing the seventeen stairs to 221B. His pulse races and his stomach clenches. Nerves. Idiotic. Don't think about any of it (about touching John) (about kissing him) (stop now). Wish he could delete it. Just pretend it never happened. Easiest.

John knocks, and the fact that John feels he must knock is so very not good that it makes Sherlock hesitate and flex treacherously shaking hands. Five days since he last saw John. Five days.

He steels himself, crushes back recalcitrant nerves into a small tight ball. He opens the door.

John is there. It is John. John at his door.

"John," says Sherlock.

John swallows and lifts his chin, hands fisted at his sides. Ready for a fight.

"Sherlock," he begins. He looks tired, tense, still angry. He's cried recently. Sherlock's mouth does something he wishes it wouldn't. "My behaviour the other day, was…out of order." John pauses, brow furrowing as he looks off just to the left. "I…can't be in a relationship right now—"

If there is anything Sherlock cannot bear, it is this: to have his foolish, idiotic fancies laid bare and rejected, to suffer John's kindness and _pity_.

"It was _sex,_ John, not even good sex," he says abruptly, perhaps sharply, clamping down on the panic that seizes him. "Hardly a proposal." He snatches up his scarf, winds it around his neck. "If there's nothing else?"

John flushes and draws back, blinking at him. "Yeah. Right, of course. Sorry—"

He steps past John onto the landing, pulls the door shut behind him. He starts down the stairs, tugs on his gloves, resolutely ignoring the fact that John came here to see him, to apologise and is here and is here to see him, and also, that John is here.

He pauses at the front door, his leather-clad fingers tapping at the woodwork lightly. Stupid, stupid. No point. Another chance to be rejected. Really ought not—

"Embezzlement case in Kensington. Barely a five. All the same...interested?"

He looks over his shoulder. John is still standing on the landing and Sherlock hates that he cannot read his expression as John takes two steps down towards him.

"All right," John says, the words stiff, and Sherlock ignores the flutter in his abdomen and nods in response. He opens the door and strides out onto Baker Street, not looking to see if John really is following him.

Sherlock is very aware of John the entire cab ride to the executive townhouse in Kensington. He is aware of his distance and his proximity. He is aware of the way John's hands are clenched into fists on his thighs and the way he stares out the window. He is aware of the emptiness that John's words would once have filled. He is aware of how the soft skin behind John's ear and the hair on the nape of his neck would feel under his fingertips.

John is…sad. Sherlock can see it now. See it in the tension in his face and the way he holds himself together. It makes Sherlock feel…anxious, tightly compressed in his chest.

He doesn't know what to say to make John smile again. To stop being angry and hurt. All he has to offer are cases and danger.

The worst of it is, he isn't sure that John has ever _stopped_ being angry and sad since Sherlock returned. He's covered it with a layer of forgiveness and denial and—Sherlock hates to admit it— with the buffer of his love for Mary. Now Mary is gone and this, this...bone-deep sadness, this isn't caused only by Mary, but by Sherlock, too. It's what he did to John Watson without knowing what he was doing until it was far too late to rectify it.

He tried to give John normalcy, to let him be happy with Mary, to protect both of them from Magnussen. Instead he'd nearly ruined John's life. He should have lied when he discovered the truth about Mary. He should have let John go with her, let him be happy and safe. Sherlock had thought he was doing the right thing. He's no longer certain what that is anymore. He needs John to tell him these things.

The case is simple. Tediously so; if not for the fact that Sherlock is desperate for a distraction, _anything, _he wouldn't bother. He is too aware of John as he speaks to the client (female, midforties, celebrity chef, money and valuables recently gone missing from a locked safe in a locked room with video surveillance), modifying his manner, gauging his tone and his words. Be nice, charming, not rude (not himself). Not to seek John's approval but to avoid his opprobrium. Can't give him a reason to leave. Sherlock selfishly wants him to stay.

He hears John's silences, his lack of words, as reproach all the same. (Doesn't know what he was expecting, he hasn't earned John's praise in a long time). He doesn't risk glancing at John to see his reactions. He feels disconcertingly self-conscious, John's gaze a prickle along his neck and upper arms. He edits before speaking. John hates it when he shows off.

Sherlock examines the safe, the wall panels, the security footage; questions the client again.

Suddenly the truth stretches out before him with sharp certain clarity. The familiar thrill of _being right_ makes him forget himself for a moment.

"_Oh! Of course," _he exclaims. "The nanny!" He begins to rattle off his deduction. The client's husband is sleeping with the nanny, she's threatened blackmail, he's fixed the surveillance cameras, turned the wife's alarm clock backwards, increased her sleeping tablet dose— Simple infidelity—

A sudden unpleasant awareness trickles down Sherlock's spine and he stops.

"_Jesus,"_ John says, an exhalation rather than a word.

Sherlock looks at the client, staring at him aghast, eyes too bright, trembling hand pressed to her upper lip, pale—upset. He looks at John. John is staring at him, a terrible expression on his face, an expression Sherlock would like very much to not be there.

He swallows and turns back to the client.

"I'm very sorry," he says softly and takes her free hand. "I'm very sorry," he says again.

Sherlock squeezes her hand. He doesn't know what else to say, and walks out of the room, down the marble-tiled entry hall, and out the door.

He hears John behind him, hears him shut the door, and hears his steady tread. Neither of them says a word. Sherlock strides down the path, through the wrought-iron gate, and stops on the pavement. The street is deserted. No chance of hailing a cab here.

John stops beside him.

Silence strings between them.

"You can come back to Baker Street, if that's what you want," he says and instantly regrets it. But that's what John did, before, when Mary shot Sherlock, when he was recovering in hospital a second time, that's where John stayed, at Baker Street.

John exhales. "I… don't know. Don't know what I'll do, to be honest. Thanks, though."

Sherlock cannot bear this any longer. He keeps making mistakes. He keeps saying and doing the wrong thing and he cannot— He should accept that John will not forgive him again. Things will never be as they were and he will never be simply brilliant-amazing-fantastic again.

He starts walking towards the intersection. He hears John follow, _feels_ him, just a pace behind, off to his right.

He manages to hail a cab immediately and when it stops, he opens the door. He looks in John's direction for the first time since he left the townhouse. "You take this one."

John looks at him in surprise, and the thought that he's miscalculated again is too intolerable to consider. He cannot, cannot do this. He turns away to hail his own cab before John shuts the door.


	3. Get used to it

Thank you to my wonderful beta reader Tsylvestris who does wonders, always.

References for a couple of concepts in the end notes.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Get used to it**

John hasn't seen Sherlock since he came to see Lucy over a week ago. He's been answering John's texts in monosyllables. It's not that John is worried. All right, he's worried. He knows what happened the last time he let Sherlock out of his sight for too long, and yeah, all right, he's feeling a bit guilty. He has an inkling now of what he means to Sherlock but he can't return it, not _now._ He's got a wife and baby. It's not his fault that Sherlock didn't deign to tell him he was Not Dead until after John had already moved on.

God, and Sherlock had been going to leave _again_, maybe forever, leave John with his pregnant wife, to gad off having adventures where John wasn't invited and where John couldn't go.

He remembers again Sherlock's sheer magnificent idiocy as he pulled the trigger on Magnussen—protecting Mary, protecting John, and by extension Lucy—right in front of half a dozen heavily armed witnesses. Sherlock had fucked up and there had been no coming back that time (except Sherlock had, hadn't he, indestructible as ever). John doesn't like to think about that too much, about the fact that Sherlock killed a man, threw away his freedom, his work, his life in London, to ensure John's freedom and Mary and Lucy's safety. John doesn't know what to do with that. Thanks, gratitude, doesn't seem enough when John has an awful suspicion it's not actually what Sherlock wants and what Sherlock does want, John can't give.

He hasn't seen much of Sherlock at all, actually, since his reprieve. After the plane landed, Mycroft had whisked him away to get Moriarty's face off every channel in the kingdom. The Moriarty case has dragged on and John hates to admit it makes him twitchy. The fact that Sherlock isn't asking for his assistance makes him even more twitchy.

He finds himself at 221B, and the lights are on upstairs so he lets himself in. He opens the living room door to see Sherlock standing on the sofa, staring at a mural of crime-scene photos and clippings. He's barefoot, in trousers and dress shirt with a dressing gown thrown over the top. He's deep in thought.

"Is this why you've been too busy to come over for lunch?" John asks, keeping it light, like he always does, because that's what they do, keep it light.

"John." Sherlock steps down from the sofa with a start. "What are you doing here?"

John is a little taken aback by the lack of welcome in his tone. "Um, just thought I'd come over for a visit."

Sherlock looks around the room. "Dinner. We'll go out for dinner." He starts to pull off his dressing gown.

"No, no, you're in the middle of something—" John steps towards the grisly collage pinned to the wall. "We can get takeaway. What have you got here, then? Serial killer? Thought you were still working on Moriarty."

"It's not Jim Moriarty; I worked that out months ago."

"Oh?"

Sherlock sucks his top lip under his bottom one, hesitating a moment before answering. "A person with access to a media network? Who didn't particularly like Charles Magnussen, and had no wish to see me punished for his death?"

John glances at him, waiting for the reveal. "Who, then?"

"It takes a great deal of intelligence and internal fortitude to be the PA of a multinational media magnate, especially one as distasteful as Magnussen." Sherlock shrugs, hands in his pockets. "And if you have an estranged, now deceased, brother who happens to be an infamous criminal mastermind, you might have some sympathy for a...man like me."

It clicks, and John gapes at him for a moment. "_Janine?_"

Sherlock nods tightly and looks down. "Yes. Fortunate, wasn't it?"

John laughs with surprise. "God, yes." He turns back to the wall. "Then what's this?"

Sherlock does not answer for a long moment and John, looking at the photos, doesn't notice his reticence at first because there's a photo of a young woman lying on the floor, eyes unseeing; an older man, bullet-hole in his forehead; a normal-looking bloke, mid-twenties, two gunshot wounds to the chest. He looks and looks, face after face, picture after picture.

And then John notices Sherlock's silence, notices because the hairs on the back of his neck have risen, because there, just left of centre, is Mary. Photo after photo of Mary. Mary with red hair, Mary with dark hair, Mary with long hair, Mary with short hair, Mary as she is now, Mary in grainy CCTV footage.

Sick horror leaches through him and he turns to look at Sherlock. "Mary? Mary's the next target?"

Sherlock hesitates, his jaw clenching.

"Sherlock?" he demands.

Sherlock suddenly looks an awful lot like he did the moment he told John that Mary was pregnant, as if he is uncertain of the welcome of his deduction. He speaks gently, so very gently. "_Mary's_ the killer, John. These were some of her victims. But yes, you're right, she is the target. The family of one of these people wants your wife dead or punished, and what better punishment than to kill her family in return?"

Sick dread washes through him to his bones. "No."

Sherlock doesn't say anything and John stares at the black-and-white photographs, the newspaper clippings. Then he sees the small group of photos in the far corner: CCTV footage of himself bundled in a parka, wrapped in Semtex; another of Sherlock holding a gun; the rubble of a building; a news clipping of an elderly lady's death. His stomach roils. "She…she worked for Moriarty?"

Sherlock's lips press tight. "Magnussen wasn't the only connection Mary had with Janine. It's no coincidence that you both worked in the same clinic either."

"Jesus Christ!" Everything seems very far away. "_Mary_? No. Nope. Fuck that. No," he denies, even as he knows, God, he_ knows _it makes the most sense anything has done lately. He moves, paces. "Where did you get all this?" Another wash of nauseating certainty. "The memory stick, you looked at it, didn't you?" He glares accusingly at Sherlock. "You fucking looked at it!"

"The memory stick was _blank_, John," he snaps. "It was a bluff, a test, and you passed. This—this is courtesy of our esteemed secret service's files on the operative formerly known as A.G.R.A. Mary's past wasn't saved on the memory stick, it was written on it."

John swallows. "What makes you think she's—_we're_ in danger?"

"The break-in, when Mary was in the maternity hospital."

"You said it was just kids."

"You'd just had a baby, John, I didn't—I was trying not to worry you."

He clenches his fist, breathes out, breathes in. "This is what you've been working on?"

Sherlock looks down.

He grits his teeth. Everything is spinning and closing in on him. "You should have told me." Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

Sherlock turns away, walks over to his desk and picks up an envelope. "There's more."

"More?"

Sherlock hands him the envelope. "The results of Lucy's paternity test."

John simply stares at him. Stares at him as his throat closes and his chest crushes his lungs and he feels as if he's shrinking into nothing.

* * *

John stares unseeingly out the window on the cab ride home from the embezzlement-cum-adultery case in Kensington. He bites down on a knuckle, still shaken by the all-too-real reminder of Mary's infidelity, his own gullibility. It had been a stupid move to tag along with Sherlock. He had been supposed to simply go to Baker Street, apologise for being a complete prick, and leave. But he never could resist a case with Sherlock, could he? He doesn't know why Sherlock even invited him though. He'd been cold and aloof and practically ignored John the entire time and had packed him off home as soon as they'd finished. If John had worried his appalling actions a few days earlier would ruin their friendship, now he had the proof.

"_It was sex, John, not even good sex."_

His gut twists with shame. Well, yeah, it probably had been pretty shit from Sherlock's point of view: give someone head and get tossed out on the street without even a handjob as a thank-you. John rubs his hand over his eyes, dismayed at himself.

Worse, seeing Sherlock on a case culminating in the gut-punch of a gleeful deduction of adultery had only reminded John of the last few deductions he had been privy to, the ones that cut his hopes of love and family off at the knees. But then Sherlock's uncharacteristically chastened kindness towards the client had given John pause, and then Sherlock'd offered him his old room back at Baker Street.

John can't think about that right now.

The cab drops him off at his house and he goes inside, alone. The next day he goes back to work because he can't bear to sit at the house alone, can't bear the reminder, the lack of reminders. (Hates how he can't stop wondering what Mary's doing, how Lucy is).

He still loves Lucy. He thinks he'll always love Lucy. It would be easier if he could just stop, but she's a part of his heart now, has been since before she was born. From the first moment he held her, he adored her, and he can't just turn that off. None of this is Lucy-bug's fault and he'll be damned if he'll ever blame her for it.

He's assailed repeatedly by doubt. God, he hopes he's done the right thing. He had to make sure Lucy was safe. He knows Mary will protect her, knows this is the one thing he can trust amongst all the lies: that Mary loves Lucy. He knows that Mary would never allow anything to happen to her daughter, just as he knows this is the safest option. A.G.R.A's daughter is a prime target for a family who wishes to avenge the death of their own daughter, so Lucy has to go into hiding as well.

Maybe he should have gone with them, but how is he supposed to stay with someone he can no longer bear to look at? He knows what it's like to have parents who hate each other staying together "for the sake of the children," and if he'd gone they'd be tied together indefinitely. He never wanted that for his own child. Earlier, he thought he could look past Mary's history, let her wipe her slate clean, but that was before he saw the reality of it, the scope of it, before he learned he'd been played all along. It hurts to try to reconcile the woman who'd sat on his bed in soft pyjamas, knees pulled up under her chin, cheeky grin on her face, with the same person who could pull the trigger on an eighteen-year-old heiress. He can't trust a single thing about their life together now. He has no idea what was real and what was simply a way of manipulating him, of part of a plan to get to Sherlock.

(If he'd gone, he'd have had to forget about London and Sherlock and cases but he hadn't allowed himself to factor that in, he chose Mary and his choice to leave her had to be about _her_, not his selfish addiction to Sherlock Fucking Holmes).

He works extra shifts and then the goes home and sleeps until he has to go to work again.

He doesn't think. He doesn't think about Mary fucking David, he doesn't think about someone else being Lucy's biological father, he doesn't think about Mary pulling the trigger that would kill a blind great-grandmother and blow a block of flats to smithereens. He doesn't think about Sherlock _knowing_ all this and considering,_ fucking considering_ not telling him. He doesn't think about the blissful ignorance if Sherlock hadn't told him…because Sherlock'd had to, hadn't he? Because one of the families of the people Mary hurt, one of _those _families, they found Mary, didn't they? And it wasn't just Mary who was in danger.

Nearly a week after the Kensington case, he gets a text from Sherlock. Just an address, followed by a second text: _Come if convenient. – SH_

John wants to delete it—no, the truth is, he wants to want to delete it, but instead he stares at his phone for a good minute and a half before standing, zipping up his jacket and grabbing his keys. He steps into his bedroom on his way past and gets his gun from the bedside table. He knows he can never resist Sherlock and a case.

* * *

John comes. John comes and John unquestioningly follows his instructions. Together they catch the would-be kidnapper in the act and Sherlock is the one who grabs him first and there's a struggle and then John is there, magnificent and seemingly three times his height as he aims his gun and orders the idiot to _put the fucking pipe down NOW!_

John is breathing heavily, chest rising and falling and he flashes Sherlock a shit-eating grin and Sherlock has to look away before he betrays himself.

They disarm and immobilise the abductor, pinned on the ground under John's weight—the gun safely hidden away—while they wait for the police to arrive.

It takes a while. Sherlock has to give a statement, his attempts to speed the process only impeding it. He expects John to have gone by the time he is finally allowed to leave, but no, he's standing on the other side of the police tape, waiting for him. Sherlock doesn't know what this means or what to say. Maybe John doesn't either because they don't talk as they walk back towards the main road and Sherlock waves down a cab. He does not know what assumptions to make so he makes none, simply climbs in and slides to the other side. John follows.

"Baker Street," Sherlock tells the cabbie and John neither objects nor offers an alternative.

Sherlock makes sure to pay and by the time he steps out of the cab, John is standing by the front door, hands in his pockets, breath steaming in the cold night air. Sherlock's stomach does something uncomfortable and he stuffs his own hands in his pockets because his entire body seems to be shaking and he doesn't know what he should do or say, but John is on his doorstep, waiting for him to open the door, so Sherlock does.

They both go up the stairs to 221B and Sherlock feels as if he's going to shake himself to pieces as he unlocks that door too. It's ridiculous, the way he's reacting, this is _John_, but he can't _think. _What do they normally do? On nights like this? Takeaway? Tea? Often John would have a stiff drink. Sherlock thinks he might have a bottle of something somewhere and he strides to the kitchen cabinets and starts hunting for it before even taking off his coat.

"What are you looking for?" John asks.

"A drink," says Sherlock, finding two glasses at least, and then on the top shelf a two-thirds empty bottle of single malt whisky. He puts all three items on the bench and pours, not risking a glance towards John, taking the time to compose himself. He clears his throat and then finally turns to face John, proffering a glass of amber liquid.

John looks between him and the glass and then takes it. "Cheers."

Sherlock strips off his scarf and shrugs out of his coat, buying time before he needs to speak again. He picks up his own glass and fiddles with it for a moment. "Do you want Chinese?" he blurts.

John takes a sip of his drink. He frowns at the glass. "All right."

Sherlock nods and then sculls his whisky in one go. He phones for the delivery and John takes his glass into the living room and sits in his chair. The woman taking the order has to prompt Sherlock three times for his address.

John is in his chair at Baker Street and it is almost too much to bear. Sherlock cannot just _sit_ opposite him. He'll say or do the wrong thing and John will leave. Sherlock cannot sit, full stop. He picks up his violin and faces the window and plays. He plays frantically at first, pouring his nervous energy out into his instrument until finally he finds himself able to slow, to calm. He plays some more until he suddenly realises he can smell Chinese food and turns around. John is still in his chair, but he has a noodle box in one hand and is poking at it with chopsticks. He glances at Sherlock as if this is an everyday occurrence and not something that has been missing for months. As if it's not something Sherlock thought he might never have again.

He puts away his violin and sits gingerly opposite John, taking a dumpling.

John eats and while John is eating, he doesn't leave. All too soon, however, he slows, he puts the container onto the coffee table. He stretches and fiddles with his watch.

"I should go," he says and even though Sherlock saw those inevitable words coming, the hurt is still surprising in its rawness.

"Yes," says Sherlock. He puts down his own food and stands.

John stands as well. "Right, well, thanks for letting me tag along," he says.

Sherlock nods. "Any time. Your presence was very useful."

He looks away for a moment then clears his throat, hand curling into a fist then releasing. "Goodnight."

Sherlock watches him fetch his coat and leave 221B. He hears his footsteps on the stairs, the door opening, shutting. He counts to three and then goes to the window and watches until John turns the corner onto Marylebone Road.

He leaves the window and falls into John's chair, pulling up his legs and curling in on himself, face pressed into the worn fabric of its back. He can still smell John.

Pathetic, he tells himself. All the same, he doesn't move.

* * *

John's house is cold and dark and empty.

He switches on all the lights and then turns them off again. He has a brief, brisk shower and then climbs into bed.

He stares at the ceiling and listens to the quiet of the house. With a start he realises he misses the sound of Sherlock's violin again—he hasn't done so since those first few months after Sherlock 'died'. He can still hear it, the throb of the frenetic outpouring, and later, the grace and beauty of a slower, aching melody. He still sees the long, smooth line of Sherlock's back, punctuated by the dash of his shoulders, bent to the music as John sat in his chair and allowed himself forget.

He'd let himself forget during the case, too, his blood pounding in his veins, the thrill of the chase, the fierce joy of the fight. He'd felt alive and purposeful, and for a short while he'd felt normal again. Sherlock had been brilliant and for the first time in ages John's admiration had been untainted by consequences and sorrow.

Pregnant silence had strung between them on the way back to Baker Street, and a sense of anticipation had crept down John's spine with the certainty that Sherlock would do _something_, and that John would let him.

If he felt a pang of disappointment when instead Sherlock became lost in his violin, he ignored it. Shagging Sherlock again would be a fucking awful idea. He didn't have it in him to deal with what he did or did not feel about Sherlock right now, not when every second moment he was stabbed by shards of anger and hurt over Mary and Lucy. He certainly didn't have it in him to worry about what Sherlock did or did not feel. He'd apologised and apparently Sherlock had forgiven him and moved on, and _he_ should draw a line under it as something best not repeated.

Besides, this time John had enjoyed being on a case with Sherlock, the biting thrill of working with Sherlock, of being _needed, _and he _liked_ being back at Baker Street, eating post-case takeaway and listening to Sherlock play, oblivious to everything but his music. It was comfortable and comforting, and the difference between_ that _and the cold emptiness of _now_ is salient and so obvious that it's almost a rebuke. He feels the loneliness rising over him like a physical presence and he can't bear it, he can't bear to be that lonely again. He turns over with a thump, then rolls back over again and grabs his phone from the bedside table. He writes three drafts then presses Send on the third before he can change his mind.

_I was thinking I might move back to Baker St, if the offer is still open. John_

He dozes off waiting for a reply, and the text ring wakes him with a start. He snatches up the phone, blinks blearily at it.

_You will always have a room here. – SH_

John stares at the reply for a long moment. The strangely sentimental tone of the note makes him unexpectedly emotional and he swallows hard. He taps out a reply.

_Thank you, I appreciate that. I'll bring some things around Saturday. _

He doesn't really expect Sherlock to reply, and Sherlock doesn't.

* * *

End notes:

There's been a crapload of meta cross my tumblr dash and I'm sure I've forgotten several sources for ideas that have percolated in my brain before emerging in this story, however, credit is certainly due for the following:

Mid0Nz for the David theory.  
Introspectivenights for the idea that Janine is Moriarty's sister.  
And as mentioned before Unduneljay for giving me the idea of what happens to Mary during our chats.


	4. I'll count our blessings

Warnings: Smexy times ahead. Reminder, Mary is not a good person in this fic, if you don't enjoy reading that interpretation of her motives then please click away.

PS: don't forget you can find me on A03 if you prefer.

**Chapter 4: I'll count our blessings**

The house is quiet when John returns from meeting with Sherlock. Mary is in the nursery singing softly to Lucy: ABBA now, the end of her repertoire, which John knows (after only seven weeks) means Lucy's little eyes are opening and closing in a losing battle against sleep. His chest tightens and he has to pause at the bottom of the stairs to catch his breath. He walks steadily up the stairs. Lucy is in her Moses basket, Mary sitting beside her. She looks up at him and smiles. John can't manage to smile in return. He looks at Lucy, eyes closed, little mouth open, and then back to Mary and tilts his head in the direction of the door. Mary is looking at him oddly and he sees something like fear cross her expression. Grimly, he clenches his jaw.

She follows him silently from the room, shuts the door behind her, follows him downstairs. "John? What is it? What's wrong?"

He looks at the floor and clenches his fists. He doesn't know where to begin. He feels a sudden sense of déjà vu and feels so very tired. He sucks in a breath. Answers, he needs answers.

"You…worked for Moriarty."

She inhales sharply and John finally brings himself to look at her. She's paled and has her hand over her mouth. She's staring at him.

"I'll take that as a yes," he says. "You aimed a gun at my head and would have blown me to pieces if Jim had said so."

She lowers her hand, expression pleading. "John—"

"NO! I don't want to hear your excuses. Yes or no?"

Shaking, she presses her lips together tightly.

"You killed an old lady just for saying Moriarty's voice was soft. I remember that. I will always remember that." He points his finger at her. "_You_ did that. And the little kid, were _you_ there for that? When he had a little kid strapped up in Semtex with a gun to his head? Or the boy and girl he kidnapped and stuffed full of poisoned sweeties? How about them? Your work too?"

Mary lowers her hand, lifts her chin. Her eyes flash. "Not the children, no. Did Sherlock tell you?" she asks, tone brittle.

"It doesn't matter who told me."

She swallows and tilts her head, expression softening, hand reaching. "John…"

He steps back. "No. You don't get to say my name like that. Like you _care._"

"I do care, John—"

His chest hurts. Everything hurts. "Then _why_ did you fuck your fucking ex behind my back?"

"What are you talking about?" she says sharply, and it's this that ends him. He feels his eyes sting and he swallows against the ache in his throat.

"Don't try to lie to me," he breathes. "I know, Mary. I know."

She stares at him for a long moment, then her expression flickers and she looks away. "It was a mistake, it only happened once."

"When?" He needs to know, he has to know. He can't let it go this time, can't hope and forgive and start afresh yet again. This time he needs to know.

She bites her lip. "Your stag night. David wanted to catch up and I…it was just one last time, before I got married and well, you know, you and Sherlock—"

John can't believe this. Cannot believe this. "Oh no…don't give me that! You do not put this on me. For the thousandth FUCKING TIME, I've never fucked Sherlock Bloody Holmes!"

Mary turns on him, chin up. "You wanted to. I know you wanted to—the minute he came back, you wanted to. And that was your last chance to do it." She shrugs. "I thought you had, actually."

Rage and incredulity breaks through his numbness. "No. I didn't," he says tightly. "And do you know why? Because I made a commitment to _you_. I was getting married to _you._" He paces._ "_So maybe I wanted to." He whirls on her. "Fuck you. All right, I wanted to, just _once_ maybe, but I didn't, because, Mary, that's not what people _do_ when they are getting married to someone else! They certainly don't fucking get knocked up with someone else's bastard!"

"JOHN!"

They stare at each other. John's chest is heaving and God, Mary's appalled and he doesn't even know if _that's _real.

"Lucy's not mine."

She shakes her head, dismay and panic on her features. "I don't know, I don't know. She could be yours—"

"She's not," he says, the words bitter on his tongue, and he spews the knowledge out without mercy, just the way he received it. "Sherlock knew. He knew as soon as he saw her. He got a test done. She's not mine."

"Oh, John."

He can't bear her sympathy. "Don't."

"I'm so sorry." She reaches for him.

He steps away from her touch. "Don't!"

There's a sound from upstairs and they both quieten and wait. Lucy makes no further noise. John takes a breath, then continues in a low voice. "I'm going to ask you some questions and if you don't want me to take Lucy and walk out of here right this second you'd better answer them."

Mary swallows and nods.

John nods in return, looks at his feet, considers his question. "Was any of this real?" It's not what he meant to ask but it's what comes out.

Her face crumples. "Of course, of course it was. I _love you_, that's real, John. No—" she stops him as he begins to argue. "No, listen to me. I was only supposed to keep an eye on you. This—loving you, marrying you—that wasn't supposed to happen. My instructions were to watch you, to make sure Sherlock really was dead. I was the one who made sure you got put on at the clinic. And then," she shrugs again with a small, sad smile. "I liked you. What's not to like? And since Jim…changed the plan for Barts, and after a while it seemed like he really had killed himself, it didn't seem to matter if I finished the job or not. And you asked me out. The rest is real. It's real."

He feels his mouth twist. "Your ex? Who's he, then? One of Moriarty's too?"

She reaches again for his hand. "He's just someone I was seeing. I broke up with him when I had to start tailing you. He's a friend, that's all."

She looks at him with a sincerity he can't, won't believe. "It was a job, John. It was just a job but I fell in love with you and I quit. If it wasn't for Magnussen you'd never have known and we'd still be happy."

Part of him wants to buy into her easy explanation, except it wasn't just a job, was it? He remembers the blank staring faces, photo after photo of Mary's victims, bomb blasts and fearful voices on the phone repeating Jim's words. Freelance. Wet jobs. And then there's the lies. Lie after lie. He's been cuckolded and played for a fool. He looks at Mary and he feels repulsed. "You killed people, not in a war, not out of duty, because you _liked_ doing it. I—I really can't—I can't even look at you."

Mary looks away, arms folded. "I told you, you wouldn't love me anymore."

"Yeah. You were right." He bows his head for a moment. "Lucy's in danger," he says finally.

Mary's eyes dart upwards to the direction of where their daughter is sleeping. Her expression changes instantly, fear and hard business both at once. "Who?"

"We don't know. Sherlock's trying to find out. It's someone whose life you destroyed." Mary moves but John grabs her arm and inclines his head in warning. Her eyes flash. John breathes through his nose. This is _her_ fault. "One of your _hits_, your wet jobs, they were someone's son or daughter, or maybe their sister, mother, father. And now that family wants to hurt you back, wants to hurt Lucy. Maybe to hurt me too, but I don't really give a fuck about that. They could shoot me dead right now and quite frankly if it wasn't for Lucy I wouldn't give a toss."

"We have to leave."

John tightens his grip and shakes his head. "This is what's going to happen. We're going to get Lucy and we're going to Baker Street. And you're going to tell Sherlock everything you know about anyone you've ever hurt. And he's going to work out who's found out about you and we're going to do whatever it takes to protect Lucy. Understood?"

Mary nods tightly. "Of course."

He releases his grip. "Just understand: you and me? We're finished. The only reason I'm helping you is to protect Lucy."

She snatches her hand away. "Perhaps we can save the posturing and hurt feelings until our daughter's safe, do you think?

* * *

John is moving back to Baker Street. John's things are in the second bedroom, his room, always John's room.

John clatters down the stairs. "Right, that's it for now. I'll be back later tonight."

Sherlock looks up briefly from the highly toxic experiment he's about to commence at the kitchen table. He fiddles with his microscope, needing something to do with his hands. He'd kill for a cigarette but he's back on the patches.

The fear of saying or doing something that will undo all progress so far and make John change his mind has paralysed Sherlock all day. This indecision and second guessing and caution is hateful in the extreme. It will not do. Piqued, Sherlock determines to simply be himself. If John leaves, then so be it. Sherlock cannot be expected to walk on eggshells for the rest of their cohabitation. This is who he is and John knew that when he agreed to move back in.

Hence the experiment.

"Hm? Yes. Dinner, then?" he asks and then hates himself a little bit for asking, and then hates himself a little more for hating himself. Irritably he amends, "Pick up something on your way."

"Only if you've cleared away that muck by the time I get back," returns John briskly and something warm flares in Sherlock's chest. He grunts in response (doesn't dare to look at John right now). "And don't burn down the flat," John adds as he heads out the door.

Sherlock sniffs loudly and derisively, waits for the sound of the downstairs door closing then puts everything away. He wipes down the table for good measure.

He waits another five point three four minutes (enough time for John to remember something and return), and then goes upstairs. He stands in John's room, now with John's things in. Everything has been stowed away neatly and there's really not much difference between the room _sans_ John and _avec_ John, but there's two photographs on the dresser (one of Lucy and one of John's regiment including Sholto), John's book on the bedside table, John's bedside lamp. The bed has been made up with John's usual precision. He pads to the wardrobe and opens it. John's clothes hang inside. He closes the wardrobe and goes to the bedside table. The drawer next to the bed is empty. Sherlock looks under the bed, spies a box, pulls it out. John's gun. Sherlock puts the box back.

John is back.

The feeling in his chest is overwhelming. Sherlock storms out of the room and down the stairs. He texts Lestrade to tell him he's taking the woefully obvious murder-suicide at Heathrow and slams the door on his way out of the flat.

The suicide was of course a murder and the murder actually death by misadventure, but it proves to be more interesting than initially anticipated and it's dark by the time Sherlock catches a cab back to Baker Street.

He sees the lights on in 221B and, with a frisson that sparks along his nervous system from abdomen to palms, he remembers John. John is back and he can tell John about the case. He takes the stairs two at a time and throws open the door.

John is sitting in his chair, reading, and looks up. He considers Sherlock for a long moment and then clears his throat and returns to his book. "Fish and chips in the oven," he says.

All the words about the case dry on Sherlock's tongue. No. John does not want to hear about his deductions. John isn't interested in seeing him show off. John likes the hunt, the spike of adrenaline, the fight. John likes to be run. John is not so keen any more on Sherlock being clever.

Sherlock unwinds his scarf and takes off his coat. He salvages the leftover fish and chips and perches in his armchair opposite John and watches inane television with the sound off, just to make it interesting. It's not, but John is here, sitting opposite him and he hasn't left yet.

* * *

John can breathe again back at Baker Street, without the encroaching loneliness and the suffocating reminders of Mary's lies; knowing that someone else will be home, if not now then later, to fill the emptiness. Still…it's not like it was, will never be like it was: the comfortable, simple fact of John and Sherlock, rattling around Baker Street together, delighting in the madness….the way they'd been before Sherlock faked his death, before Sherlock became withdrawn and obsessed with Moriarty and John was at his wit's end because he could feel Sherlock slipping millimetre by millimetre through his fingers and didn't know how to help or how to stop it happening. The thought that he could have done _something,_ said something (or rather, not said something), that might have stopped Sherlock committing suicide had haunted him the whole time Sherlock was away.

Sherlock hadn't committed suicide, though, had he? But he'd still left, still slipped through John's fingers. Had come back completely oblivious to the pain he'd caused and expected John to just bleeding drop everything.

So yeah, it will never be like it was. Part of John will always be waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Sherlock to decide he's dispensable, a liability, and leave again.

And part of John will always feel like a failure for ending up back here. Couldn't even get married without fucking that up. His fault. Always his fault.

Sherlock's a closed book. He's just like he always is, by turns hyperactive and then lazy as fuck. Maybe not as demanding, though, and when John thinks about it, he's quieter and he ignores John a lot more than he used to do. Sometimes John would like him to demand a cup of tea, just to demonstrate he knows John's there.

Sherlock doesn't mention their encounter the afternoon that Mary left and neither does John. John had wondered if accepting Sherlock's invitation back to Baker Street might have given the wrong impression. Obviously not. John wasn't sure what he was expecting, but if Sherlock's harbouring any non-platonic feelings he certainly doesn't show it. It's a relief, yeah, it's not something John is willing to think about, but all the same, it stings a bit that he might have burnt that bridge with his poor behaviour. But maybe that's just Sherlock—not his area, married to his work, transport. Why should John expect anything different, just because they'd shagged once, badly, just because John's sure he's glimpsed something a few times that mirrors his own tightly held feelings, the ones he's been unable to admit to himself even after he thought Sherlock had died?

Sherlock hasn't invited John on any more cases. Sometimes he rocks up at all hours, flushed and practically vibrating with success, and John waits for him to tell him what he's done but he never does. John can't bring himself to ask, not when he wasn't wanted along in the first place.

For his part, John goes to work, comes home, eats, goes to bed. Rinse. Repeat.

* * *

Sherlock relaxes as days become weeks and John continues to remain at 221B. He attempts to be considerate—he forgets sometimes, he's been alone for so long—but he tries to remember that someone else will want to use the kitchen later, or the bathroom, and restricts his experiments accordingly. He tries to remember that someone else is trying to sleep at 3 am and might frown upon being woken by the violin or an explosion. He tries to remember if he's told John he'll be home for tea or any other meal and at least texts if otherwise.

He tries.

John is…quiet…unobtrusive. They orbit each other, he and Sherlock, two separate existences sharing the same plane.

He refuses to allow himself to dwell on certain memories: the touch of John, the taste of John, the knowledge of John. John has made his feelings on the matter very clear and the whole event was a mistake that Sherlock will not repeat.

He keeps himself busy with work for Mycroft (a debt he prefers not to acknowledge and that Mycroft is too dignified to mention, but Sherlock responds now when Mycroft asks for his assistance), and since he cannot bear to be idle, to give his mind time and space to drive itself to distraction with thoughts of John and John and John and John, he takes cases that he used to sneer at or dismiss. They're all dull and can be solved within minutes, simple deductions, no danger, no adrenaline or adventure, just Sherlock using his mind. He doesn't invite John. He can't bear John's silences when once there was praise, John's irritation when once there was amazement, or John's pain and hurt and anger when once there was admiration. No, he doesn't invite John.

One evening they're both at home, John reading, Sherlock updating his website, and John has muttered something about soup, when Mrs Hudson shows two clients in (female, forty-eight, academic; male, fifty, manufacturing industry; married but separated, one child—both worried, concerned: this is to do with the child, Sherlock is sure). Sherlock stands, aware of John's presence, of their location, of unfortunate associations and reminders that Sherlock has so far taken pains to avoid—_that's where they sit, the people who come in here with stories._

"What is it?" John asks, and Sherlock risks a glance in his direction. He's put his book down and he's looking between Sherlock and the clients expectantly, the careful blankness or cold disapproval that had characterised his expression during the last ill-advised foray into deductions is nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock indicates the sofa. The clients sit. He turns his armchair around and also sits. John does not move his chair, but he does turn physically towards the clients. Also interesting. A tiny flame of hope flares in Sherlock's chest and he ruthlessly extinguishes it.

The clients explain. It is the daughter, as Sherlock suspected. Eighteen, missing. The police have been informed but they have no evidence of foul play; she's been reported as a missing person, but without evidence to the contrary there's nothing they can do: her bags were packed, there's a new boyfriend (alternative, her parents dislike him), she's legally an adult, we're sure she'll be in touch, Mr and Mrs Brown. Her parents suspect otherwise, _know_ otherwise: Heather would never…and also…

There's something they can't tell the police, but they tell Sherlock. They have a longstanding shipping arrangement with a Mr Lowell—items added to Mr Brown's containers, cash exchanged in envelopes, no questions asked. Something went wrong with the last shipment. Lowell seemed fine about it at the time. Mrs Brown thinks he's taken Heather as insurance for the next shipment and wants to tell the police, Mr Brown thinks Lowell's making them sweat and involving the police will only make things worse, put Heather in more danger.

"What was in the shipping containers?" John asks.

Brown looks guilty. "I don't know. I didn't ask."

"But you have an idea," says John tightly.

"Like I said, it's not my business."

Sherlock stands, agrees to take the case. He'll need to go to their house.

"Our car's waiting," Mrs Brown says.

Sherlock nods, tells her he'll meet her downstairs, strides to collect his coat and scarf. He hesitates at the door, hand resting on the doorknob. John is standing by his chair, eyes bright—eager, even—chin lifted, hand clenching by his side.

"This might take a while. If Brown's associate is responsible, it—" Sherlock bites his bottom lip for a moment. He's not so much drawing this out, but testing. "Could be dangerous. Coming?"

John licks his bottom lip. "Thought you'd never ask."

* * *

It's not drugs or electronics being smuggled via Brown's shipping containers, it's people, and Lowell works for someone who works for someone. Heather Brown and her boyfriend, Rupert, had discovered it and had been caught poking their noses in where idealistic eighteen-year-olds shouldn't.

Being on a case is different now compared to before Magnussen, before the wedding, maybe even before Sherlock's return, John realises. Sherlock works silently now, no longer throws ideas or rhetorical questions at John and expects inspiration to bounce back. Instead he murmurs to himself and paces, silently putting together the pieces of the puzzle until there's the familiar look of wonder as it clicks into place. Now there's no dramatic reveal but instead a simple explanation, a terse list of instructions for what they must do next, and then they're off. John feels almost superfluous. Is this why Sherlock no longer asks him on cases, because he's no longer his conductor of light? Because Sherlock no longer cares about dazzling him, receiving his praise?

He doesn't have time to think about it though, because tonight they run from one drama to another.

By two am, Sherlock and John have released Heather and Rupert from a shipping container bound for Dubai and broken into the offices of Lowell's employer's employer. They've gathered enough evidence to destroy the human trafficking operation and release over a hundred indentured workers and sex slaves.

Sherlock transfers the data to Mycroft and then they hightail it, feet pounding as they slip through the night. They fall into a cab, panting.

John is buzzing with adrenaline. This is mad and ridiculous and he feels fucking amazing, better than he's done in a long time. He's done good, they've done good, they've saved the girl, made the world a better place for a hundred or so people if nothing else. Sherlock was right, just as John had known he'd be. In this one thing he can trust: Sherlock is always right.

He glances at Sherlock and they both grin.

John sprawls in his seat and laughs, delighted. "That was…amazing," he says, and glances at Sherlock's profile, tilted upwards, scarf unwound and long slender throat exposed as he catches his breath.

Sherlock looks at him sharply, brow crinkling, and blinks. "Oh," he says, more a breath than a word, John feels the stab of it low in his abdomen and he's caught by the sudden vulnerability in Sherlock's expression, the pleasure his praise has caused.

His chest constricts and he feels again that tight, sharp want that always shafts through him at times like this, when he's raw and pumped full of heat and Sherlock is so fucking incandescent that he's practically glowing. _That _want, that he so carefully, forcefully ignores and pushes away (never thought Sherlock was interested, it wasn't like that between them, he'd ruin what they had), but now, now—

He looks at Sherlock and Sherlock looks at him.

* * *

Sherlock's heart hammers in his chest. He can't look away. John's eyes are bright, he's humming with the adrenaline of a good fight, and he's looking at Sherlock as if…as if he's every positive adjective he's ever uttered in Sherlock's honour.

After a long moment they both look away and Sherlock finds himself still breathless as he stares out of the window. There's a sharp, glowing feeling in his abdomen, under his ribs and across his groin and thighs. His _palms_ ache. He clenches his fists and breathes through his mouth.

Stupid. Can't control the transport. Just transport.

Too soon, too slowly, the cab pulls up outside Speedy's café and Sherlock fumbles in his pocket, throws some notes at the driver, and flings open the cab door. He gets the front door of 221 open and then races upstairs, quickly pulling at his scarf. He needs to retreat to his room, lock the door and avoid John for the rest of the night—it's nearly morning anyway, John should be in bed—

Before Sherlock has hung up his coat however John is opening the door, forceful, deliberate and controlled in his movements. He looks directly at Sherlock as he pulls the door shut behind him and shrugs out of his jacket (the one Sherlock likes best, the black one that fits so well).

"You never said how you knew," says John lightly. "About Heather Brown running off with her boyfriend."

Sherlock blinks, an indecorous fluttering in his abdomen. He avoids John's eyes, focuses on hanging up his coat as he answers. "Heather had been working at her father's warehouse part-time. There was a phone number on a post-it note on her desk—the NSPCC—and some figures—10, 12, 15—paired with dates. The Poppy Project and Migrant Help were in her search history." He sucks in another breath and realises John is _still_ watching him, his lips parted expectantly as if he's hanging on Sherlock's answer. As if he's impressed. "On her Facebook page she indicates that she met Rupert at an Amnesty International meeting, and coupled with a passive-aggressive post that obviously referenced her parent's dubious relationship with Lowell, it wasn't a huge leap to realise she had discovered that her father wasn't simply bringing contraband into the country and that she and Rupert had decided to do something about it."

"Clever," breathes John. "That's clever."

Sherlock's breath catches.

John's gaze flickers to Sherlock's lips and then back to his eyes. His pupils dilate and that damnable tongue darts out to wet his lips. A frisson runs through Sherlock's core. John is so close, and Sherlock is so very tired of trying not to want.

He gives in.

He steps forward, daring John to look away, and leans over him, one hand above him on the door, as he bends down and brushes his lips over the shell of his ear. He feels John shiver and press his fingertips against his stomach. He pauses for one beat, weighing his words carefully.

_Touch me. Let me kiss you. I'm yours, John, just say the word and I'm yours_—Ah, but John doesn't want to hear that, John doesn't want a relationship. So…

"I want to touch you," he says, low and distinct, dropping his voice.

John starts and turns his head slightly, his mouth and nose brushing Sherlock's throat. "It's your turn, I think," he murmurs and Sherlock feels his whole body realign itself. He draws back to look at John, half expecting to see mockery, derision, but instead John's eyes are dark and his gaze flickers down to Sherlock's mouth and lingers. With a long sigh, Sherlock kisses him.

It is a light kiss at first, a tentative press of mouth against mouth, but John's hand comes up to the nape of Sherlock's neck and his thumb tilts his head just so and John takes charge, parting his lips, deepening the kiss, chasing Sherlock's tongue and bruising his mouth. John smells of sweat and the particular scent Sherlock has categorised into its base notes and essences as uniquely John. Sherlock's skin feels too sensitive; he needs to touch, touch more. He strokes the cartilage of John's ear, traces the side of his neck, runs his knuckles down John's cardigan, hand curled in tight, his palm damp and aching with want.

John's other hand splays on his side, fingers kneading at his flesh, and Sherlock finds himself rocking into John. His groin is tight and he's so very aroused. John is touching him, not in anger, not as a friend or a doctor, but in desire, with _want_. He feels pathetic, having no control, but he can't bring himself to stop because John rolls his hips against his thigh and Sherlock can feel the hard heat of him pressing through his trousers. His breath hitches and he feels John's answering huff of breath, gasped against his lips.

And then John drops both hands to Sherlock's waist and Sherlock suddenly can't breathe, can't kiss, can't move because John is undoing Sherlock's trousers pushing them and his pants down. The fabric of his briefs drags past his erection and Sherlock pants weakly against John's mouth, lightheaded and pulse racing. He feels boneless or as if he's below water (knows what that's like, that moment just before unconsciousness before they drag you up again—no, don't think of that now). He draws his mouth away, presses his forehead against John's and looks down, at his pants and trousers bunched at his thighs, at his cock, bobbing obscenely between them.

John slides both hands up over the curve of Sherlock's naked buttocks and Sherlock simply holds on, holds himself up. John has him, John's lips are brushing his, he's sharing John's breath, every nerve centred on John's hands on his bare skin.

John slides his hands up under Sherlock's shirttails and back down, cups both cheeks and squeezes. "God, your arse," John murmurs reverently. His hands glide forward around Sherlock's hips, over the sensitive skin between hip bone and pubic area, and then he brushes the backs of the fingers of his left hand over Sherlock's erection.

Sherlock quivers. He braces himself over John, breathless, as John strokes again with his knuckles and then tentatively touches with the pads of his fingers. A choked sound escapes Sherlock's lips, and John, apparently emboldened, curls his hand around Sherlock's length.

"All right?" John whispers and Sherlock's breath hitches as he nods, as John begins to slide his hand. "I've never—"

"It's good," Sherlock whispers. He watches, rapt, as John's hand moves, as it slides up and over the head of his prick, pulling up his foreskin and then pushing back down his length, each pass sending sparking, needy, wanting spikes along his nerve endings to spider across his abdomen and up his spine and to sit heavily in his thighs, sacrum, and testicles. It should be as prosaic as masturbation, but if Sherlock's felt anything like this before, this experience of being touched by John Watson, he's deleted it. Janine had tried—a few encouraging touches that he'd dodged, uncomfortable and feeling oddly guilty, and had distracted her with her own orgasm instead. This, this is only uncomfortable in the way that Sherlock wants John never to stop but to finish all at once, more and less, and never and _now_.

John is hard too, his erection pushing lewdly at the front of his jeans, and Sherlock remembers him belatedly and fumbles, hand bumping against John's as he reaches for the fastenings on his jeans. John groans, pushing into Sherlock's touch as Sherlock takes small, nipped, panted kisses, finally undoes John's fly, and slides his hand into his pants.

John groans against his mouth and sags a little, his rhythm faltering for a moment. They move against each other, rutting into each other's hands. John's breathless curses are too much for Sherlock and without warning he is suddenly overcome, a rush of sensation coiling tighter until it breaks, shattering through him in pulse after filthy, shocking pulse.

"God, Sherlock, yeah, that's it."

Sherlock surfaces, shaking, gasping, clutching.

John's head falls back against the wall and Sherlock drags damp lips against his throat and strokes with intent, until John clutches at his biceps and his fingers dig into his hip. Sherlock feels a surge of triumph as John stiffens and, with a curse, comes in Sherlock's hand.

They stand there, panting as their breathing and heart rate slowly even out.

"Sherlock—" John stops, swallowing, dropping his hand from Sherlock's arm, from his waist.

Cold dread washes over Sherlock and he feels suddenly, awfully exposed. He steps away, quickly pulling up his trousers, tucking himself away, heedless of the mess on his hand, his shirt, his jacket, of his own ejaculate painting John's jeans and shirt.

"John—" he says. He can't look at John. He won't look at John. He can't bear to see John's face twisted in shame or regret, not this time, not after—

Sherlock's defences slam up. He draws himself up. "John, I think you should know, I don't—this isn't something I intend to pursue on a regular basis. You need not have any concerns on that front."

* * *

Sherlock straightens, adjusting his cuffs, expression haughty and cool. There is no sign of the soft, open vulnerability that had caught John's attention in the cab. There is no sign of the urgent, breathless man who'd whimpered into his mouth and clutched at him as if John were the most important thing in the world. Nope, that Sherlock has vanished. It was the moment, adrenaline high and a case resolved, and that was all. It feels like a drench of cold water all the same.

"I wasn't— no, not concerned." John scrubs at his face with his clean hand. He doesn't need Sherlock to spell it out for him. The reality of what they've just done has already slammed home. He should be relieved that Sherlock doesn't see this as anything more than what it is. He _is_ relieved. After everything that's happened, Sherlock Holmes is the last person John should try to have a relationship with. "It's just sex," he says, parroting Sherlock's phrase from the first time.

"Obviously." Sherlock presses his lips together briefly. "Admittedly, _better_ sex this time," he offers, and as he glances at John, something unbends slightly in his expression.

John huffs a laugh, grabbing onto the change in tone with both hands. "Good, that's, yeah, good." He meets and holds Sherlock's penetrating gaze for a long moment, refusing to hide, Sherlock will deduce whatever he'll deduce anyway.

"Good night, John."

John nods. It's fine, this is fine. It hasn't ruined anything or promised anything. It was just sex and returning a favour, evening things up a bit. They can get on with being friends again now. He clenches and unclenches his hand. "Good night."

Sherlock's gaze, cool and inscrutable, flickers across him one last time, and then the man strides from the room. John stands there for a long moment, then with a sigh and a few choice curses fetches a cloth to wipe up the floor.


	5. If I don't ever leave a thing behind

Thanks as always to my talented, generous beta reader Tsylvestris.

Warnings/contents for this chapter: sex, angst and references to past Janine/Sherlock.

* * *

**Chapter 5: If I don't ever leave a thing behind, I'll still leave you without me**

Sherlock crosses the boggy muck and icy puddles of water and pushes open the small metal gate at the front of the cottage. Frigid mid-January wind whips at him, but at least there's no snow here, 5 miles from Eastbourne on the Sussex Downs. Sherlock hates the countryside, but he will admit that Janine's choice of retreat is picturesque enough, even in the middle of winter.

The cottage itself is stone and two storeys, the downstairs windows aglow behind white curtains. Janine shouldn't be expecting him but Sherlock has come to appreciate that she is yet another woman he has underestimated, and therefore merely raises an eyebrow when she pre-empts his knock and opens the door.

She's impeccably made up as always, resplendent in cashmere and the very best country chic, her long dark hair falling over her shoulder, her fine eyes sparkling along with her familiar, bright smile.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes," she says, and he sees it now, the hint of those depths she'd hidden in plain sight—no lies, simply omissions, camouflaged by a charming, open exterior: a brother, passed away, they never really got on, you know how brothers are?

Sherlock's mouth quirks up into a half smile of admiration as much as greeting. "I believe I owe you thanks."

She rubs her arms and shivers. "Come in with you, it's fecking cold out."

Sherlock wipes his shoes and follows her inside. The interior of the cottage is everything the exterior promised: fireplace, soft, tasteful furnishings in a modern country style, throw rugs and cushions. He scans the bookshelves and the small desk.

"Crime writing, Janine? Really?"

"You know what they say: write what you know." She shuts the door behind them, holding her hand out for his coat and scarf. "Bit slow, Sherl. I was expecting you last week." She winks teasingly.

Sherlock snorts lightly and hands her his things. Admittedly, he should have realised who had organised the Moriarty media stunt sooner. He blames the morphine withdrawal—he stopped before he left hospital and got through the worst of it there, but God, he feels so slow. Too slow—he let Magnussen blindside him at Christmas– so many mistakes. Doesn't help that he's trying to go cold turkey on John Watson as well. He's avoided him since the awful farewell on the tarmac. _The game is over._ Let him have his ex-assassin wife, his soon-to-be-born baby, a semblance of a normal life with just enough spice to keep him interested. Keep him away from Moriarty—well, that's a moot point now. "Regardless, thank you."

She hangs up his coat and scarf. "Consider it _my _thank you. The man was a right terror. I knew you'd come in handy."

"He didn't know your secret?" He follows her into the cheery sitting room. She sits on the sofa and he takes the armchair opposite.

"No, Jim was very good at what he did, and he did hide me very well."

Sherlock smirks. He doesn't need to say it.

Janine rolls her eyes and throws a small cushion at him. "Yeah, yeah, you're the clever one." She grows serious. "Prat. He was my brother, despite everything. I still loved him."

Sherlock realises he has entered emotional territory and may have made a misstep of etiquette. "My condolences. For…you know."

"Wasn't your fault. He wasn't…happy. Too clever by half and nothing would keep him interested. My mam used to say, 'The devil finds work for idle hands and our Jim keeps him run off his feet.'"

Sherlock isn't sure how to respond to this.

"I told you, I know what kind of man you are." She smiles ruefully. "And I told you we could have been friends. If you'd asked me to help you with Magnussen, I'd have said yes. I knew you were using me to get to him, but—" She tilts her head with a small shrug. "You're terribly pretty and awfully fun when you're pretending to be sweet, I thought I'd enjoy it for a while."

He swallows, and, detestably, a blush threatens. He clears his throat, gets back on track. "So, stop me if I have this wrong. Jim embeds you with Magnussen; he doesn't own Jim and Jim doesn't own him—professional rivals, if you will—and Jim needs to keep an eye on him. You see what kind of man Magnussen is too, and you don't like it. But then Jim dies and you're stuck there, no backup, no resources to put an end to a rather nasty, reptilian excuse for a human being. You don't like what he does and you don't like how he does it. You are biding your time, waiting to get access to Appledore." Janine watches him mildly, not stopping him. "Besides, he's discovered something about your new friend Mary… And then I come along, and you think, well, why not? I'm not the first one to try to get close to you to get to Magnussen, but at least I didn't make you my maid of honour."

"Just your fiancée," she notes wryly.

He has the decency to look chastened. "Sorry," he offers, before continuing, "You let me in, you know it will cost you your job but it will be worth it. But Mary's there, and I stop her from shooting Magnussen and so save his life, and he's _ever_ so grateful. So grateful that he lets you distract the media with your tell-all story, lets you leave his employment without any repercussions. Of course, Mary's still in danger, Magnussen's still a slimy, unconscionable little man, but then I blow his brains out—in front of witnesses, no less. You have access to Magnussen's security footage, you know what's happened as soon as the report hits the news ticker that he's been shot by an unknown intruder. You still have some contacts, and when you hear about my exile, you know what it means." She'd seen the scars; she'd asked, and, curiously, he had told her. Another intimacy (or maybe a moment of vulnerability, compromised by the novelty of having someone close, intimate and caring). "And you know the one thing that will keep me here in London. You fake Moriarty's return."

He still doesn't really understand why she would bother. Their arrangement had ended to their mutual satisfaction; he knows now she wasn't starry-eyed and in love, yet she _had_ intervened and he _is_ grateful. "Again, thank you."

"You're welcome." Janine considers him. "Stay tonight, keep a girl company."

It is, strangely, not an unwelcome suggestion. It's not that he wants her sexually. He never has—he thinks of the excuses he had to make during the unavoidable moments of intimacy, the reasons he gave that he let her believe she'd coaxed from him (lies by omission, all of them)—yet her sturdy affection (no concerns of breaking this one's heart) tempts him: to be held and wanted just for a while.

She misreads his hesitation. "Silly, I don't mean _that," _she says with fond condescension. "I do have a spare bedroom. It's just nice to have a visitor. Gets a bit quiet here, you know."

"I— very well."

"Don't be so enthusiastic," Janine laughs. "I won't make you rub my feet."

He fights another blush. In context, it's an innuendo. He hadn't minded—it had been a useful experience, enlightening data, and a way of distracting her from his lack of interest. It had not been unpleasant. He'd repeated it twice more. The last time, he'd imagined the thighs around him were those of a soldier and the fingers in his hair the sure, blunt ones of a doctor. He'd got himself off, kneeling there between her dimpled knees in front of his own chair. He'd sucked a bruise on her thigh to keep himself from saying the wrong name.

She's smiling at him fondly again and Sherlock looks away. "So, was I right?" he says, returning to safer ground.

"Very nearly," she nods.

He draws back. "_Nearly_?"

"Just one, tiny point."

"There's always something. What, then?"

"Mary."

"Mary?"

She smiles. "I've known Mary for a long time, Sherlock—about five years, in fact. And I was the one who gave her secret to Magnussen; let's just call it a little insurance policy in case my big brother's favourite sniper decided she didn't want to play anymore. You were right, I wanted to stop Magnussen, but not because he was blackmailing Mary. That was the one thing he was useful for. I thought maybe she'd do it, to be honest."

The truth hits him, and his mind shifts, pieces sliding into places, data connecting. "Mary worked for Moriarty." Implications spin out in all directions. He stares at Janine.

"How _is_ Mary, Sherlock?" he dimly hears her say, still watching the connections form and the truth unfold. "We haven't been in touch after she hit me over the head and shot my fiancé. It's John I feel sorry for—" His attention snaps back and he looks at her sharply. Her eyes widen. "OH! He took her back! The eejit!" She leans forward and swats Sherlock on the knee. "And you're an even bigger eejit! Why did you let him take her back?"

Sherlock shuts his mouth with a snap. The long answer: he was injured and needed to buy time, he needed Mary to think he was on her side and that John taking her back was an option, but the fact was that Mary was right. It had broken John, and John's betrayal and fury and hurt had been terrible to witness. For a dreadful moment Sherlock had known that it would have been so easy to remove Mary from their lives—Mary, John's wife, the other most important person, one who'd completely turned his life around, the woman carrying his child—to have John back by default, but it would hurt John, more than Sherlock could stand, and it's clear that Sherlock is not the one John wants. So Sherlock let him choose. He gave him permission, an excuse to be able to forgive Mary if that's what he wanted. And John had.

The short answer: "He wanted to."

"Oh, Sherlock," says Janine, and she looks so sorry for him that Sherlock cannot bear it.

* * *

The morning after the Brown case (and mutual hand jobs in the kitchen—well, _that_ was a turn-up), John crawls out of bed with only three hours' sleep. He makes it through work with only two catnaps. When he gets home, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. Which is fine.

John cooks something for his tea, but finds he's not as tired as he thought, and after flipping idly through a medical journal and channel surfing without success for a few minutes, he picks up his laptop. He could write up the case, he realises. After two guesses, he finally remembers his password and logs onto his blog.

Sherlock's fake wedding entry is the last post. John makes himself read it, nurses the ache in his chest. There are new comments asking what's happened, why he hasn't updated, a couple asking if he isn't helping Sherlock anymore now he's married. He's been ignoring the contents of his email inbox as well, but from the subject headings he's fairly certain it's more of the same.

He closes the browser.

How could he even begin to explain? That he hadn't seen Sherlock after the honeymoon because the world's only consulting detective was too busy with a fake girlfriend and getting high in an effort to get close to Magnussen, who, it turns out, was also blackmailing John's new wife. And then John's new wife shot Sherlock and there were no more cases because Sherlock was (mostly) in hospital, until Christmas, when he shot Magnussen dead. Then Sherlock avoided John for nearly two months, until he revealed John's wife was Moriarty's right-hand sniper and that the family of one her wet jobs wanted her dead. Yep. Can't really put that on the blog. Besides, he has to keep Mary and Lucy's cover story in mind.

He'd changed jobs after Mary shot Sherlock, left the clinic where they'd met and worked together and fallen in love. He let her deal with the gossip and make up the explanations about why, barely a month into their marriage, the newlyweds couldn't even speak civilly to each other, let alone work together. So he hasn't had to deal with well-meaning prying from Mary's former colleagues. Mary was the one who kept in contact with them, and after her departure, a group email, cc'd to him, had been sent from her email account to their mutual acquaintances: irreconcilable differences, attempt to reconcile for the sake of the baby failed, returning to the US to start again. John had tried to ignore the veiled hint that it was his relationship with Sherlock that had been the cause. He knows Mycroft was responsible for sending the message, but whether Mary composed it, he has no idea. The few people at his current clinic that know he had just been on paternity leave soon put two and two together with his 'personal emergency' absence from work and the fact that he no longer wears his wedding ring. If they have any thoughts about that, he's grateful that they don't share them with him.

Part of him wonders now, too, how much of what he put on his blog was used by Magnussen to target Mary. Was used by the family of Vanessa Henley to find Mary. Was used by Moriarty against Sherlock.

He forces thoughts of Mary and the accompanying burn of resentment and humiliation away. He bites his bottom lip, then opens a blank Word document. He starts to type. He finds himself caught up once again in the Brown case, running through the warehouse, sneaking down carpeted hallways, following Sherlock, admiring Sherlock. It takes him over two hours and he's just finishing it when he receives a text.

_Still at Barts. Toe necrosis experiment. Don't wait up. SH_

It makes John laugh, a sudden burst of pent-up emotion released with the thought of something so wrong and so normal all at once.

Still smiling, he considers the message fondly for a moment, then taps out a reply. _Off work tomorrow, let me know if any of those necrotic toes turn into a murder case. _

Sherlock's reply is surprisingly swift. _Unfortunately no, although you'll be pleased to note that the gangrenous specimen from the long term smoker may have finally convinced me that you were right about the patches. S_

John snorts. _I'm going to print this text out, laminate and frame it. _

Sherlock's reply is even quicker. _Don't let it go to your head. S_

Still grinning, John taps out _Goodnight_ but then stops and deletes it, because that's not what _they_ do, even though it's what _he _does when he's texting a new someone the day after they've had sex.

He finishes off writing up the case and then saves the document in a new folder.

He knows Sherlock will find it, doesn't know if he'll bother reading it. The next day, when he comes home from work, Sherlock is using John's laptop and gives him a knowing look when he glances up. He doesn't mention the entry but springs to his feet. "Dinner?"

John holds up his bags of groceries. "Making some." He indicates the table with his chin. "Clear that lot off, would you?"

Sherlock complies and then sets the table while John cooks and pours them both some wine.

They sit, they eat. Neither talks much and neither tries to fill any silences. Afterwards, John starts clearing the table, expecting Sherlock to retire to the living room and avoid the job. Instead he joins him, turning the taps to run the water in the sink and unbuttoning his cuffs to roll up his shirt sleeves.

He glances at John wryly. "Don't look so surprised. I _have_ done the washing up before."

John grins. "Beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks don't count. But by all means, be my guest."

Sherlock's mouth quirks into his real half-smile.

Is this how it's going to be from now on? John wonders, as he stands next to Sherlock, both of them quietly engaged in the most mundane of domesticities. Just him and Sherlock, doing the dishes together like an old married couple, chasing after criminals five minutes later? The thought is not an unpleasant one. An underlying potential hums between them, like always, a low, unrequited burn that may be released in the adrenaline rush of life-or-death madness. John is used to it, knows it, and now that the tug of loyalty towards Mary has been severed, he wears it comfortably under his skin again, even if now his eyes are drawn to Sherlock's mouth or neck or the vee of skin at his collar.

He doesn't realise he's humming until he looks up and sees Sherlock watching him with an oddly arrested expression. John clears his throat and raises his eyebrows deprecatingly as he reaches for another plate to dry. Sherlock, saying nothing, returns to the washing up.

John chews on the inside of cheek thoughtfully. "It's good to be back," he offers.

Sherlock looks at him in surprise. "You were missed," he says simply.

John lifts his chin, affected more than he would like. "Well, you were the one who left first," he says gruffly with a burst of sharp, toxic anger, and he realises it hasn't gone away, is still there, seething just under the surface. He's not sure if he's ever _not_ going to be angry. He exhales, rolling his shoulders. He can't quite look at Sherlock. "You were missed, too. And apparently I'm still pissed off about that."

Sherlock gives a short, shaking huff of laughter and John jerks his eyes up to meet his, the left corner of his mouth twisting up.

"You never did tell me," John says with feigned lightness. "Why you couldn't let me in on your plan."

Sherlock looks away. A muscle in his jaw twitches. He presses his lips together. "I didn't realise," he says.

John frowns. "Realise?"

"That I'd be missed."

John swallows.

"I mean, I do now, you made it very clear. I— " Sherlock stands tall, lifts his chin. "I meant what I said: I didn't want you to let the cat out of the bag, you needed to believe I was gone. You were being watched—more closely than I anticipated, as it turns out."

John gives a sharp, wrong laugh.

"Quite," agrees Sherlock in a softer tone. "You were a marker: any change in your behaviour, any indicator that you had any reason to believe I was not dead—well, you saw what happened when you shaved off your moustache."

"That was Magnussen, not—Mary already knew you were back."

"And what if Mary had seen you celebrating my resurrection before she developed feelings for you? The point is while I was—the work I was doing was hard enough without my…targets knowing I was alive, without using you to…distract me." He looks away, turns, the knuckles of his left hand pressed to the kitchen benchtop. "When we made the plan, when I realised what had to be done…I thought perhaps it was for the best, that it would be better for both of us." He shrugs. "I'd become…compromised. Pressure point, John. And there _you_ were, tangled up in my life, a target. If I was out of the picture, no more death threats, no more broken dates, no more 'confirmed bachelor.' You could be normal and boring and safe." Sherlock meets his eyes finally. "I thought you'd recover soon enough. A relief not to have to deal with all of it." He smiles crookedly. "I didn't realise, John; how much I'd miss you, nor how much you'd…care."

John exhales. "You really are an idiot, aren't you?"

"In many respects, apparently, yes."

John pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to say this once, just once, because I didn't get to say it at the time, and I need to say it. You made me watch you commit suicide. I _blamed_ myself. Do you understand what that did to me? For _two years_ I thought you'd killed yourself because I—I don't know, couldn't help you, wasn't a good enough friend, because I never fucking told you _enough_ that you were important. The last thing I said to you, before your suicide call—I called you a machine. I left you, alone and worried and betrayed by every fucking ungrateful prick in the country, when I was the one who knew you were who you said you were. And the thought, the thought for two years, that you died thinking I didn't believe in you? That you killed yourself because I didn't think that you were my best friend, a human being who was worth standing by—You have no idea how—"

And then Sherlock's hands are on his shoulders, pulling him close, wrapping his around him, crushing his hands and face into Sherlock's chest, and it's only then that John realises he's shaking.

Sherlock says nothing. Sherlock holds him. Slowly he relaxes, yields. Sherlock's face is pressed against his hair. He can feel the beat of Sherlock's heart, under the steady rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest with every breath against his ear.

"I don't know how to make amends, John," Sherlock whispers. "I've tried and tried, but I don't know what to do—I wasn't lying on the train carriage either when I said I can't do this, I still can't say the right thing, I still can't say something that will make right what I did—and I'm so very, very sorry. I never wanted to hurt you."

"Shut up," says John gruffly. He steps back and Sherlock's hands fall away. John squares his jaw, but he can't bring himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. "I meant what I said, too. I forgive you. And what you said... it helps."

Sherlock's lips press together again. "All right," he says and it's a small ineffectual sound.

John nods. He looks away, embarrassed now by his emotional outburst. He forces a grin. "For the record, I shaved the moustache for Mrs Hudson, not for you."

Sherlock gives a soft laugh. "Of course."

John's body feels the absence of Sherlock. He flexes his fingers. He finally lifts his gaze and finds Sherlock watching him. John is tired of denial. "Come to bed?"

Sherlock's eyes widen, two spots of colour high on his cheekbones. He is very still and silent. Then he nods and John exhales and closes the distance between them.

* * *

They don't make it to the bed. They barely make it to the living room.

John hauls Sherlock's pelvis flush against his and Sherlock whimpers and grabs at John to stay upright but they both stumble and fall to the floor. For a moment, tumbling to the floor with Sherlock under his hands, John experiences déjà vu, and it hits him in the solar plexus because the intent and need are so very different to that moment in the restaurant when Sherlock had waltzed carelessly back into his life. He lies between Sherlock's parted legs, hip to hip, and he braces himself over Sherlock. He looks down into the wide and darkened eyes staring up at him, at Sherlock's kiss-red mouth parted on a breath, at his upper lip and chin already rubbed from John's five-o'clock shadow. John's throat aches and he catches Sherlock's mouth again. He kisses him, fiercely, punishingly, rolling his hips in with a thrust that makes Sherlock moan into his mouth. He remembers Sherlock's stupid waiter disguise, his stupid cracks about John's moustache, utterly oblivious, no comprehension—and maybe, if Sherlock had said _then_ the things he'd said tonight, then this is what John would have been doing that night instead of trying to throttle him.

But now—as Sherlock cups his face and threads his long fingers through John's hair and meets every aggressive slide of John's tongue with his own, as he lifts his hips to thrust right back, as he pants and whimpers and _wants_—John can almost believe that Sherlock does feel something for him, does need and want him every bit as much as John _requires_ him. John wants this, he wants more of this evidence that he's important in Sherlock Holmes' world.

He can't get enough of Sherlock's mouth, this very visceral connection. They find the perfect slow, deep glide, and John could stay here all night. Sherlock seems to agree, as with soft sighs he indulges John's exploration of his mouth. His long hands run agitatedly over John's back to clutch at his jumper or cup his cheek before skimming down his shoulder blades again. John rolls his hips, rubbing his denim-clad erection against the answering hard-on in Sherlock's pants. It makes Sherlock groan into his mouth, so John does it again, and again. It reminds him of long, slightly guilty snogs on the sofa when he was a teenager, hoping it might lead to somewhere before his Mum or Harry came home, but this is different: honest and unashamed. Sherlock hooks his legs around John's and grabs John's arse firmly with both hands, pulling him closer, lifting his hips up to meet John's thrusts.

God, John could get off like this and, from the way Sherlock's movements quicken, from the ragged, broken, panted sounds he's making, he's close too. John keeps up the rhythm and pace, his own pleasure building with each rough meeting of hips. Sherlock's clutching at him and is so fucking undone—

"John," he gasps, fingers digging into John's arse, pelvis pressing up hard against John's erection. "John, John—"

Sherlock's shaking and a burn of fierce joy hits John at the effect he's had on him.

"Yeah, Sherlock, god, that's it," grunts John, thrusting harder, holding him tighter.

With a choked cry, Sherlock throws his head back, then forward, burying it in John's shoulder, and he stiffens, hips jerking, as he comes.

"John..." he breathes into his neck.

"Oh, God," John groans and lifts up, tugging open his trousers, thrusting his hands into his pants, fisting his erection urgently, eyes locked on Sherlock's—wide-open, sex-glazed and stunned. Sherlock reaches for him and John falls forward, brushing open-mouthed at Sherlock's parted lips, fucking into Sherlock's fist. His breath catches in his lungs as ecstasy shafts through him and he comes, his spunk striping across Sherlock's shirt.

He holds himself there over Sherlock for a moment, both panting, breathing each other's ragged breaths, and then he flops off and sits back against the side of his chair. Sherlock collapses limply on the carpet, an arm slung over his face.

John's heart rate slows and he tucks himself away inelegantly.

Finally Sherlock folds into a sitting position, wrists looped about his knees. John grins at him weakly and Sherlock's lips twist into a light smile. He _looks_ shagged: hair awry, eyes sleepy and dazed, lips red and mouth and chin now rubbed raw. The thought that John's given someone stubble-burn at this age is a bit ridiculous.

"Sorry," he says, indicating the region of his own mouth apologetically.

Sherlock snorts. "I told you I prefer my doctors clean-shaven."

This makes him laugh. "How many doctors have you been snogging then?"

Sherlock huffs in light amusement. "Just the one." He looks away.

Silence stretches between them and John lets his eyes close. He opens them with a start as Sherlock leans over kisses him on the corner of his mouth. "Go to bed, John," he says, getting to his feet.

John quirks a smile, watching as Sherlock, shirt untucked and wrinkled, pads down the hall towards the bathroom, noting, not for the first time, the line of his shoulders, and curve of his arse. The lack of guilt this time is freeing.

He goes into the kitchen and puts away dishes until he hears the bathroom door open and Sherlock's bedroom door shut.

Later, as he's making his way up the stairs, Sherlock starts to play the violin. John smiles to himself and leaves the door open a crack when he goes to bed. He's still bemused about this thing they're doing, but there's a bright, hopeful feeling in his chest, mixed with a healthy dose of sexual satisfaction and a sense of closure that has been nearly three years coming. He closes his eyes and for just this moment he lets himself be happy.

* * *

Sherlock plays his violin, allowing his mind to process these recent earthshaking events. With painstaking care, he files away every memory and moment of this latest encounter with John.

He will do whatever John asks of him, give him whatever he needs: cases and danger, his deductions if John wants them again, and if this physicality is something John needs too, then Sherlock will give him that as well. For the moment he will have this too, every touch, every tantalising taste. He remembers the press of John's mouth, the slide of his tongue, his urgency, the glorious noise he makes when he climaxes, and most precious of all, the sound of his name, rough and wrecked on John's lips.

He feels again the bright flare of pleasure at the memory of John's overly romanticised notes on the Brown case (couldn't stop himself from memorising every ridiculously florid piece of overly flattering description). It is lowering, the way he craves John's admiration and praise, but he clutches at every utterance, overblown phrases included. He places it in the special room in his mind palace, the one only for John, where it can never be deleted.

Tonight though, tonight feels like forgiveness, a rewrite —a wish fulfilled months too late. Would that John had put his mouth on him so fervently that first night of his return. No, foolish. Now, with an ache of terrible understanding, he appreciates more fully _why_ John had been so unyielding. The knowledge of his ignorance, his abject emotional stupidity, hurts anew. But John has forgiven him again and John has been in his arms again and he will take this, whatever this is, for as long as he is allowed.

* * *

AN: As in previous chapters, there's been a lot of meta that I absorbed during the first few weeks post series 3, but I must acknowledge in particular these influences on tumblr:

The nature of Sherlock and Janine's relationship during HLV in a post by Earlgreytea  
The idea that Magnussen allowed Janine's tell all as a media distraction from Sherlock being shot from commentary by Vulgarweed.  
A gorgeous meta by Ivyblosson about Sherlock telling Janine his real feelings about John under the guise of giving her an explanation as to why he isn't having sex with her.  
And if you're wondering about my take on the physical nature of Janine and Sherlock's relationship, I wrote my thoughts on tumblr.

Oh and the idea that John's moustache was a marker (for CAM at least) is expressed beautifully in a meta by Drinkingcocoa

If you'd like links to these posts please see the A03 version of this chapter (can't post links here, link is in my profile) or message me. Thanks!


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